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JOHN T. BEECHER. BORN: SANDUSKY, OHIO, JULY 23, 1831. MR. BEECHER follows the profession of law in his native city, wbere he resides with his family. He has contributed poetry since his youth to the periodical press, which has attracted much widespread admiration.

CAT TAILS. See the little cat tails, Look how - Swell” they grow, What's broke loose in this small world, To cause this warlike show? Fluffy little cat tails, Waving in the weather, Right upon the house-top, There they are together. Angry little cat tails, What have they of grace, White and black, maltese and gray, Each fastened to its place? Naughty little cat tails, Standing in the night, Each one waving vengeance And ready for a fight. But what if every cat tail So bristling and tall, Should all at once be taken off, And leave no tail at all? Why every little cat tail That is fighting bravely fell, Should make that cat a hero grand, A feline “ general swell.” And how many little children Would think it lots of fun, To have a bobtailed pussy, A little tailless one? For they who laugh at cat tails Enjoy the slightest thing, And know as well as we do. The glory it would bring.

We'll shout and we'll dance on that grand old

day! Let the cannons roar and the bands all play! And we'll honor the boys who cleared the way For the old starry banner they bore through

the fray. And well may we shout, for the world knows

why, While our eagle screams in his course through

the sky O'er the flag of the free with the sun in his

eye. For not only in name, but in truth we are

freeWe'er a nation of peers, every man that you

see. We've no slaves to be beaten by brutal

Legree;" Our flag waves for freedom on land and on

sea; It's the hope of the world -- the dream that's

sublime; It's the banner of glory in earth's every clime And our eagle screams in his course through

the sky O'er the flag of the free with the sun in his

eye. It's the gift of our fathers -- those heroes of

old Whose names on the pages of fame are en

rolled, Whom no hardships could conquer --- so daring

and bold, No Monarch could frighten, no Kingdom

could hold. For our children for aye may this flag be un

furled, The pride of their hearts and the hope of the

world, While our eagle screams in his course through

the sky O'er the flag of the free with the sun in his

eye.

THE FOURTH OF JULY. Oh, how glad we feel when that proud day

comes, With the squeeling of fifes and the beating

of drums, With the snapping of the crackers" and the i

roaring of guns, With the marching of the veterans and the

dead heroes' sons. With the daughters in their pride when they

all join in For a grand old time with its joyous din, While our eagle screams in his course through

the sky O'er the flag of the free with the sun in his

eye.

EXTRACT. The law that keeps you out of trouble, my

sister and my brother, Says that while you have a wife or husband

you cannot have another; That you must not leave the dear one to lope

liness and fears, And wilfully absent yourself for the period of

three years; That you must, aye, be true, too, in weather

cold or sultry, And never, so the law says, must you commit

adultery. And if you read the statutes carefully, you'll

find the law is bent To preserve you in your manhood. You must

not be impotent.

EUGENIE E. CLARK.

BORN: PADUCAH, KY., Dec. 10, 1867. The young lady whose picture and name appear here is one of the quite accomplished young ladies of Paducah. Graduating from college, Miss Clark has devoted much of her time and her talent since to literary pursuits, mostly over the nom de plume of Geneva. Her writings on various subjects, both in prose and poetry, have won for her a very enviable reputation, both at home and abroad. Her first literary effort was at the age of ten, when she wrote a poem which promised her | subsequent literary ability. She bas lately

TO A ROSE. LA BRIDE.
Pale, perfect flower, to thy petals cling
A sweetness born of dew, of sun, of heaven;
An incense that upborne to paradise,
Meets wafts of angels' breath in downward

sighs
Swayed earthward, that to mortal souls it

bring The dream of happiness that shall be given.

I gaze upon your leaves now curled and dry
And yellowed into pale and softened gold,
The days and weeks and months - a year has

past
Since he who gave thee sighed, when we at

last Knew that the time had come to say good-bye Till many moons should wave and buds un

fold.
Thy faint breath whispers of one sunny hour
Passed where the trees and blossoms wove

their spell
Of trembling sweetness in the dappled shade;
The drowsy note of birds borne from the glade
Came on the truant breeze, that wooed the

flower
Then tossed her fragrant kisses o'er the fell.
In thy pure heart the subtle perfume lives,
As lives in mine the sweetness of that hour.
Whate'er betide,whate'er the years may bring,
The fragrance of a thought to thee will cling.
Though fame or place – whate'er the future

gives
To me, to thee I give all in my power -
A kiss, a tear, a sigh, pale, perfect flower.

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PATIENCE.
Long and wearily I waited,
Waited Jamie for thy coming,
Listened for thy loved footsteps -
Tearful leaflets sighed: « He comes not.”

Long and wearily I waited;
EUGENIE E, CLARK.

Pitying skies wept all day with me;

E'en the birds were silent, while I written an opera, which she is now setting to

Watched and waited, but you come not. | music, and which competent critics who have

Shall I ever feel your band-clasp examined it pronounce a sure success, as the

Warm my blood like wine, and tingle public will soon have a chance to verify. Miss

Through my veins like drops cf ichor? Clark has also written a novel, which East

Feel your warm lips' tender clinging? lern publishers have examined and declared full of power and great promise. As a con

Yes, I hear your solemn promise, tributor to the local literature of the city her

And a soothing peace falls o'er me articles have been most flatteringly criticised,

Like a heavenly benediction; and show a graceful and easy flow of lan

And my waiting heart hath patience. guage and thought. There is evidently quite a brilliant future before Miss Clark if she shall

ALONE. decide to utilize the talent she has for author Oh! golden moon, that sifts thy yellow dust ship. Her poems have been widely read and In gleaming mist o'er all the silent earth, admired by lovers of the muse throughout || Tell me, dost look upon another face the Cnited States.

So sad as mine, another heart so sad?

Your light falls soothing as a mother's touch

LEON ROBERT. On fevered brow in childhood's nervous

BORN: NEW ORLEANS, LA., AUG. 26, 1861. dream, For well I know upon another form

MR. ROBERT has had a varied career; and That wanders in far lands you smile to-night.

although a book-keeper by profession, he un

derstands photography, has been a jewelry Oh, one bright star that looks into the room

drummer, book canvasser and advertising Where he has been; but, ah, so silent now,

agent. He has also been employed on the You seem to waver on wi

Chicago Current; has been a regular contriYou hear me sigh and say, He is not here."

butor to the Arkansaw Traveler, and besides And sweet south-wind that comes across the

his poems has written a few humorous papers. flowers

CHATTERTON. Of my own sunny southland in its bloom,

Behold! from countless caldrons of the air You whisper to me in soft, fluttering tones

Calm tempests boil, and blackest fumes arise As faintly low as pulse of dying fay.

That darkly infold the stifled heavens. You bid me rest. Your message from my love Midnight's terrific stillness, as dreadful Sheds boundless peace and joy ineffable.

At e'er haunted the pulseless solitude, Thy fragrant breath is warm from off his lips; Stirs with quiet tumult athwart the gloom. Oh, touch my face and leave his heart-breath As ev'ry awful pause, silence inly storms there.

In fearful tranquility, that so noise th' horns, Touch thou mine eyes, my lips, oh, sweet

And broods o'er things most dark, drear and doleful.

[night, south-wind,

And are, the legion stars this mourning And gather there the kisses that are his;'

In clouds of sorrow hid, deeply weeping Oh, waft them to him ou thy scented breath

'Hind a veil of darkness at th' wondrous To where he wanders — far from love and me.

youth

[well. Oh, golden moon, and stars, and fragrant Who gives this cheerless world his last fare

winds, Shine brightly - gentle blow upon my love:

THE VISION. Oh heaven-lights, in safety guide his steps One eve a luti! sat in solitude, To where the heart he knows is true awaits.

On th' terrace of the king, in pensive mood,

Scarce heeding from his gloomy, love retreat, And winds, take from my lips its guarded

The glorious hues of Nature at his feet. kiss;

The lilies, hyacinths, roses that close bloom Fly swiftly with it to my lover's lips,

To rosemary, favorite of the tomb; For linger, lest the greedy air absorb

While mellifluous zephyrs idly play One heart-throb of that passionful cares.

Amid trees that in plaintive sweetness sway. Ye whispering winds that fill my heart with Through wild delightful vales, awiding slopes, praise,

Parting, impulsive, hasty breeze elopes (storm, Till all my soul speaks in a jubilante,

From threat'ning, avenging, approaching Ye bid me rest; and peace thrills every vein, In the distance thund'ring his dread alarm. And restlessness falls swooningly away.

Soon the thoughtful luti is in a trance:

Confused, amazed, a vision claims his glance. EXTRACT.

Lo! mid far, solemn forests, black with night,

Discerns, in a ling'ring, uncertain light, With closed eyes, I think of thee, my sweet,

A shadowy, surging throng that seems Thy spirit hovers near this pensive hour;

As of the delicate fabric of dreams. Again I seem to see thy dark head bend,

Then sudden rise the chant of ziraleet, Above me — feel thy dark eyes' wondrous

And harmonions cadence of fairy feet, power.

Echoed by mimic voice of Kashan wells Again I feel thy whispers on my cheek,

And tooba trees,and wondrous champak vales. My hand in thine, strong to thy bosom prest, In vestments of clear, hazy texture made, Till I could feel thy heart's blood surge and Like the light around, but of goldener shade, throb

Sees lithe bazigers of etherial race ’Neath where my pulsing fingers flutt'ring

To the melody dance with sylvan grace. rest.

Now here, now there, in merry, sportive flights Again we wander near the river's brim,

O'er dim-lit swards, or misty airy heights. With sedgy grass caressing love-light feet; While the Peribanon with streaming hair, With soughing willows waving dreamily - Breast all nude and beauteous limbs half-bare, The moon light kissed the waves - you kissed | Reclining on billowy clouds among, me, sweet.

Queenly surveys the gay and joyous throng.

MRS. MARTHA E. WHITTEN.

BORN: AUSTIN, TEXAS, OCT. 3, 1842. At twelve years of age Martha contributed to the press, and from that time on her pen has been kept busily employed. Marrying young, she was left a widowat twenty-four with three children, and teaching was her only support. After five years she again married, and has now a large family. Mrs. Whitten's poems are

Whisking and whirling and sailing around, Filling the doorway and whitening the ground. The snow, the snow, how we hail its return, As higher the fires on the hearthstone burn; The young and the merry, with fond hearts

aglow, Welcome thy coming, thou beautiful snow! Flitting and frisking and flying about 'Mid the sleigh-bell's jingle and the school

boy's shout. The snow, the snow, unsullied it comes --In its vesture of white 'tis draping our homes; 'Tis heaping a grave for the dear dying flowers, Wreathingin beauty this bleak world of oursTill the woodland sparkles with crystalized

gems, Where the sun rays slant through its glittering

stems, The snow, the snow, 'tis staying the course Of the onward train" with its fiery horse," Snorting and neighing, it boldly defies, While deep o'er the track the snow-mountain

lies. Oh the snow, the snow, the beautiful snow! What ruin and wreck it can work below! The snow, the snow, how its feathery flakes Kiss the faces cold of the pure glassy lakes. Till lost on their bosom in rest serene The moon looks down on the beautiful scene Where the lakes and flakes are blended in one, And the Frost King reigns on his ice-girt

throne. The snow, the snow, it is hurrying past, Borne on the wings of the wild wintry blast; Its delicate down is filling the air O'er village and steeple, and city so fairOver the churchyard silent and white, It gleams like a specter abroad at night. The snow, the snow, it is finding its way Through the battered hut where the wretched

stay; It mocks their wants with a broad, cold grin, As through crevice and crack 'tis hurrying inIt heeds not their tatters, but pierces through

all; God pity the poor when the snow-flakes fall! The snow, the snow, the pitiless snow! Unheeding the pauper, bereft and low; He dies alone in the cold dreary street, With naught but the snow for his winding

sheet. Like an angel kind with a delicate wing, It bears him away to the home of the King. The snow, the snow, by wayward winds toss'd, Soon in the mire of the street to be lost, An emblem thou art of man's primitive state Ere yet the drawn sword guarded Eden's lone

gate.

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THE SNOW! THE SNOW! The snow, the snow, oh the beautiful snow! Falling so softly, so gently below; Hiding the rubbish in by-way and street; Bridging the road for the traveler's feet Silently, solemnly eddying down Robing the hillside and shrouding the town. The snow, the snow, it is with us again, It is drifting in heaps o‘er valley and plain; 'Tis spoiling the paths our feet loved to tread, Winding its sheet o'er our dear precious dead

EDWIN H. BARNES. BORN: MARATHON, N. Y., MAY 13, 1849. APPOINTED Marathon postmaster at the age of twenty-one, a position he filled for eleven years, he next entered the railway mail service. He is now resident agent of the Phænix

Come back to me, my own, my fair!

I reach out hands in bitter pain

To clasp you, sweet, all mine again; But reason mocks at my despair. My blue-eyed pet, my precious one,

Could I but hear your baby voice, How greatly would my soul rejoice, None happier beneath the sun. The stars go out, the moon sleeps low Beneath yon fringe of stalwart pines,

The weary night, in dull, dark lines, In mantled blackness hides my woe.

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MINE. My heart broods o'er a coffined lid: The truest, purest, best of all Is in its narrow limits hid; And I, ... well, life seems all of gall, More bitter far than anything, The saddest morsel Time can bring. There is a grief too deep for tears, A wild, corroding sense that eats Full deep into the heart, and sears The soul, where gladness seldom beats. It is a grief that none may know, Save those whose hearts are full of woe. Sweet, sainted mother, truly mine; Your boy whose breast is full of woe, Who loved you deeply, purely so, Bends low beside a broken shrine. The blue bent sky so full of stars A wild uncertain light sends down Upon the mantled earth of brown, Blown full of deep volcanic scars. Do angels weep? Do angels grieve? Full soon there comes so much of dread, Full much--full more. Can I believe My darling one lies cold and dead? Lies still and white ... so better far Than J... beneath a baleful star. Christ is a mystery --- a breath, A holy dream --- a pure sweet trust, Whose promises are truly just; But why, oh why, did He bring death? I would that tears of mine might flow, Strive though I may they will not come; My very soul seems coldly dumb, So bitter, deep, this cruel woe. O loying smiles that all for me, Awoke within my breast such bliss, A love far deeper than the sea, And pure as any angel's kiss: Inwoven dreams full bright and fair, As rainbows braided in the air. O sweet, pureolips, all voiceless now, Kissed into silence --- sadly muteBy the pale angel's cold salute, Christ help me bear this woe, somehow!

BENEDICITE. Sleep peacefully my little one,

Under the azure swell of skies,

Where daisies bend their starry eyes -
Beneath white fringes of the sun.
Thy soul with Christ; thy spirit here,
Thy rosy lips that now are dumb,
By death's dark siren overcome,
Leaves earth draped in a mantle drear.
Why woo thee back? Were it unjust?

The voice of all the world is such

That none would care . . not overmuch, Save one who broods above thy dust. The winter's wind, the summer's breath,

The pearly tears of June's sweet flow'rs, Drag slowly out the weary hours, That throbs between a life, and . . death.

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